


A Soft Spot

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Thorne
Genre: Affection, Alcohol, Anger, Angst, Best Friends, Canon - TV, Canonical Character Death, Couch Cuddles, Drabble, Drunkenness, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gay Male Character, Gen, Heterosexual Character, Male Friendship, Memories, Mentioned Calvert case, Mentioned Sarah Chen, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Beta Read, Not book-verse, Post-Season/Series 01, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Spoilers, Trauma, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is not coping well with recent events. He is still haunted by past ones.<br/>Phil has a right to be angry.<br/>Tom has no one else to turn to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Soft Spot

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to this fandom. I really like it. I hope I didn't fuck this fic up too badly.

* * *

Tom was plastered.

That in and of itself was not entirely unexpected, given his state of mind which, lately, could be best described as ‘fragile.’ Phil knew the moment that he heard about Sarah Chen that Tom would be spiralling out of control shortly thereafter – and here he was, right on schedule.

Empathy, however, was not forgiveness.

When he let the other man into his house, he reminded himself of this. Tom looked like hell, and it had been raining, so he was soaked to the skin. He was a pitiful sight. Phil knew he wasn’t much better, himself. He moved through his home on autopilot – hanging up Tom’s wet clothes to dry, giving him a pair of sweats to change into, putting on a pot of coffee (for himself – he knew better than to give coffee to anyone that drunk. Tom would remain strictly on water for the time being.)

When at last the coffee was made and Tom sat, shirtless, in sweats that were too small for him, Phil poured himself a cup of the strong, dark brew and took a seat beside him on the couch.

“So,” he said. Tom blinked at him. His eyes were massive. Haunted. “It’s three o’clock in the morning. On a weeknight.”

Tom nodded.

“Sorry… I just… I shouldn’t’ve come…”

“Did I say that?” Phil retorted. “I’d rather you be here than dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Tom flinched.

“Phil… I mean it… m’sorry. For… for what I said… for what I –”

“Now’s not the time. What say you to a truce? I, for one, am too exhausted to sort all that out today. For the record, I’m still angry and you’re still an ass. I know how you like to beat yourself up so, there. Blame yourself for something you could actually have prevented.”

Tom opened his mouth to reply and Phil cut him off.

“Sarah wasn’t your fault, Tom. Sarah just… happened.”

Tom shrugged.

“Sarah. Calvert. Seems like lots of people ‘just happen.’ But… thanks. For letting me stop in. And for… for everything. You’re a good friend, Phil.”

“Right.”

Phil yawned into his fist.

“I woke you up,” Tom stated. His voice was monotone. Defeated.

“Well, like I said. It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

Phil paused and considered his next course of action. He hadn’t fully recovered from what Tom had done. He doubted he’d ever be able to forget that look of accusation and rage contorting his best friend’s features. Yet that man was so far removed from the sad lump curled up on his couch, wearing his sweats, drinking from his favorite mug. A mug Tom himself had bought him, years before.

_God damn it._

“Look, whatever you need… I’ll do my best to help. We’re still mates, Tom.”

The copper nodded and sniffed with the beginnings of what was probably a cold. _We’re both so run down,_ Phil thought, _it’s a miracle neither of us has pneumonia._

“It… it doesn’t get easier. People always say that, don’t they? ‘It gets easier.’ It doesn’t. Now with Sarah or fifteen years ago with Calvert… it’s the same fuckin’ feeling, isn’t it?” Tom slurred. Phil nodded and, after a moment’s hesitation, patted Tom’s knee.

“You look like shit.”

“Cheers.”

“I’m serious. D’you want anything? There’s leftover takeaway in the fridge.”

“I’m fine.”

“More water?”

“No. I just need to calm down. Relax.”

“Have a wank,” Phil offered. “It’d help.”

It was a testament to their closeness that Tom didn’t bat an eye at that suggestion.

“I’m probably too drunk.”

Phil looked around the room for some inspiration and found it in his DVD player.

“Wanna watch a film?”

Tom began to protest.

“You need to sleep –”

“So do you, but neither of us are liable to do so anytime soon. I bought you something – it was going to be your birthday present…”

Phil retreated to his bedroom and returned with something wrapped loosely in brown paper. He handed it to Tom, letting the paper fall away in the process. Tom couldn’t supress the quirk of the eyebrow or the twitch of his lips at the sight of the DVD’s label.

_“10 Classic Westerns?”_

Phil shrugged, grinning. “Seemed right up your street with all that cowboy music you listen to.”

Tom looked, for a moment, almost serene. Soft-featured and smiling, like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like he hadn’t been splattered with blood, hadn’t stood over the bodies of women and children as the horror of his surroundings slowly changed him. He looked whole.

_Empathy is not forgiveness. Don’t be too soft on him, Phil._

Phil repeated this internal imperative over and over, the silent mantra distracting him from what looked to be a typical, boring American film. Horses. Horses. Blonde woman. Outlaw. Guns. He snuck a glance at Tom, who was watching the screen, eyes half-shut. He looked dazed, his mouth hanging slightly open. Phil snorted quietly as a bead of droop oozed a slow trail past the other man’s lips, and down, over his chin. He nudged the copper’s sweats-clad knee with his own,

“Wipe your face, there.”

Tom did so and stared at the smear on his fingers.

“I’m fuckin’ wasted,” he mumbled. Phil nodded.

“You are.”

“M’tired. I want to go to bed.”

“So go to bed. You know where it is, don’t you? Down that way – can’t miss it.”

Phil gestured with his hand. Tom shook his head.

“Nn-no! No… can’t take your bed. I’ll… the couch. You’re… still mad at me.”

Phil nodded.

“I am. I’m also shorter than you. You’ll wreck your back trying to sleep on this thing. Take the bed. I’ll stay out here.”

Tom shook his head, and Phil responded by stretching out, cat-like, his heels jamming into Tom’s ribs.

“Well, I’m sleeping here, whether or not you move.”

A look of gratitude flickered over Tom’s face. Gratitude and shame.

“Go on. Try to get some rest, will you? You’re dead on your feet.”

Slowly, steps laced with trepidation, Tom padded off in the direction of Phil’s bedroom. Phil got up, fetched a blanket for himself, and turned off the TV before curling up on the couch and shutting his eyes.

 _Empathy may not be forgiveness, but you’ve always had a weak spot where Tom Thorne is concerned,_ he thought. _Wave goodbye to your dignity, Phil._

The memory of that look of gratitude made something stupid and dangerous clench in Phil’s chest and he heaved a sigh. If he was being honest with himself, there was no dignity he’d hesitate to lose when his friendship with Tom was on the line. They’d been through too much together to throw it all away now.

He rolled over, struggling to get comfortable, and heard the creaking of springs from his room as Tom did the same. Neither man slept soundly that night.

 


End file.
